


Until I Collect Him

by LiteraryBitca



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4444973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteraryBitca/pseuds/LiteraryBitca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some say Raymond Reddington has cheated death on more than one occasion. But if you ask Death about it, you might be treated to a different version of events. (Gentle eventual Lizzington.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: He's not mine in the sense that he's Lizzie's, he's not mine in the sense that he's Death's, and he's not mine in the sense that I own absolutely nothing associated with The Blacklist.

Author's Note: I started reading The Book Thief. So... then this happened.

...:::...

Chapter 1

...:::...

The first time I met Raymond Reddington, he was four.

Mind you, I was still an apprentice at this time, so the extent of our interaction was a brief once-over performed by me while his parents brushed the dirt out of his hair and scolded him for thinking he could climb such a steep embankment. I was supposed to assess the likelihood that he would try a stunt like this again, and estimate the probability that the next time would kill him. Then I was supposed to report back, which I did.

The official paperwork (it's not really _paper_ work, obviously—we do things a little differently—but I'm trying to put it in terms I think you'll understand) listed him as someone I anticipated would need a designated case worker. Most people lead the kind of lives that don't require individualized attention. They go about their business—without endangering themselves on a regular basis—and in the end are scooped up without ceremony by one of the mid-level collectors.

Others lead the kind of lives that necessitate closer observation and monitoring.

If someone is going to continuously and frequently put themselves in the kind of situations that require a collector to be present, it's just more efficient to have one of us specifically attached to that person.

By the time Raymond Reddington had been visited another five times (his teenage years were busy for all involved), I'd finished my apprenticeship, been promoted, and, as luck would have it, he was assigned to me.

Or rather, I was assigned to him. However you want to look at it.

The next time I met him, he'd fallen from a tall platform during basic training. Sprained something, broke something else, but no lasting damage. He was out cold for a few minutes, wandering around above his body, confused but docile, so I left him alone rather than trying to herd him in any particular direction. While I watched him I took stock of the situation and privately congratulated myself: I'd predicted _exactly_ the type of man he would become when I first saw him at four years old. My job is generally a solitary one, but in that moment I wished I could share my triumph with someone else. "I never tire of being correct," I said softly, to no-one.

After another sixty seconds or so, he lay back down and woke up, and I went on my way.

I popped in for a visit several more times during his early and mid-twenties while he was in the navy. Blows to the head while boxing, a misfire of live ammunition, a truly stupid stunt on a jet-ski while on vacation… the list went on and on.

Suffice it to say, I wasn't bored.

In his late twenties I was _sure_ the assignment was up. I began showing up a little early, just to watch the events unfold. We aren't supposed to get attached, but this one fascinated me in a way my others didn't. When the odds weren't in his favor, he fought, and scratched, and clawed at life, and on more than one occasion over the years I honestly thought he would turn and see me— _without_ his life being in danger at the time—and thumb his nose at me.

Or tell me to fuck off. Though he's usually less crass these days with his language.

He began smoking cigars. I added that to my reports.

The closest I got to collecting him in his twenties was also the night I first met the girl. I'd see her again, obviously, but I didn't know that at the time.

She's got one of us assigned to her, too, incidentally. The days when we both show up are the days that I…

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The night I met the girl involved guns, knives, fist fights, and threats, all before the flames even started. The girl hadn't been assigned to anyone yet, and it was a busy night, so I was there in an expanded capacity. I was there to observe my charge, the girl, her parents, and anyone else in the house and surrounding area that may need to be collected.

In the end, I didn't leave empty handed that night, but I was relieved that I didn't have Raymond Reddington with me. His body lay burned on the ground while he stood above it, staring at the flames. I was waiting to collect the girl's father: he was taking quite some time and I didn't want to scoop in too early and jump the gun, if you'll forgive the expression. "Oh my God, the suspense is killing me," I muttered sarcastically. It really is a waste of everyone's time when there's no changing the outcome, but they _just won't loosen up enough_ to be grabbed. A minute later he was ready, and by the time I'd collected the girl's father, my charge was back in his body and I had other places to be. I wrapped up the scene and headed out.

I popped in to see him several more times over the next few days and weeks, since the burns were severe enough that keeping a closer eye on him was not unwarranted.

The next big year was 1990. He kept me _very_ busy that year.

And over the next two decades we kept in touch. At least once a month it seemed I'd end up watching him for an hour or so at least, sometimes due to an actual threat, and other times just to monitor a slightly sticky situation, if I didn't have anything else pressing at that exact moment.

Marrakech was the first time he saw me.

...:::...

TBC.

A/N: I have four chapters written and complete. How fast should I post these? (Each is pretty short...)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: He's not mine in the sense that he's Lizzie's, he's not mine in the sense that he's Death's, and he's not mine in the sense that I own absolutely nothing associated with The Blacklist.

...:::...

Chapter 2

...:::...

Marrakech was the first time he saw me.

The first time my charge _actually died_.

I was there early, since it was a slow day otherwise, and I watched all of the events unfold with a growing sense of certainty that today would be the day. By the time his body hit the ground, I had made my peace with the fact that the adventure had ended, and was trying to bolster my spirits by imagining how interesting my next assignment might be when Raymond Reddington appeared in front of me, and looked me right in the eye.

I said nothing.

"I'm dead?" he asked with a business-like tone.

I nodded.

He looked down at himself, and for over a minute he stood, still as a statue, making no sound at all. Eventually he turned back to me, and gestured at his dirty, blood-stained clothing. "I don't suppose you let us freshen up a bit before we cross over, or ascend, or whatever it is I'm about to do?" he asked dryly with a raised eyebrow. "I'd hate to show up looking like this only to find out that part of our final judgment is based on appearance."

I tilted my head and regarded him carefully. "You can't judge a book by its cover," I said carefully. "But you can by its first few chapters…" I let my eyes drift down to where his body lay before adding, "…and certainly by its last."

Looking back on this, I realize it was my words that made him stay. He looked down at his still form again with chagrin, as if he were distressed by the idea that this had been his last chapter. I assume he wanted another attempt at writing the book he would be judged by eventually, because he walked swiftly back to his body and lay down.

I saw him again soon after that in a hotel in Damascus. A man who's life he'd saved the previous month in Lebanon managed to get the drop on him, and while the paramedics worked on my charge, I couldn't help but envision the retribution that lay ahead. The other man had gotten somewhat damaged in the altercation, but had gotten up quickly and run. His case worker remained, hovering nearby despite there no longer being any need to do so, blathering about another charge, another case.

Like I said, our jobs can be lonely sometimes.

But I wasn't about to let the opportunity to talk to Reddington again pass me by, especially when I wanted to ask him why he'd continued with the same habits that got him into trouble in Marrakech. I held up a silencing hand and glared at my colleague. "You talk too much. I have no interest in cases that I have no interest in," I said harshly.

Reddington paced back and forth, unable to see me while simply unconscious, and I shook my head sadly. This man was so full of life, and so captivating to follow around the world; I had grown to love the act of checking in on him from time to time to witness his various exploits.

If he stopped living his life so recklessly, he'd surely last longer.

But I wouldn't have any cause to watch a mundane and sensible man.

I moved to intercept his path, and he blew through me with a whisper. I wasn't going to collect him today, but what might happen in a week, a month from now when he'd recovered enough to repay the violence visited upon him today? At what point would his aggressive tendencies catch up with him? Retaliation would solve nothing, as far as I could tell, but my charge seemed to value it above all else, even love it, as if he were married to the idea of it. "Revenge isn't a passion," I murmured to him as he paced back through me again, willing him to understand. "It's a disease. It eats at your mind, and poisons your soul." If he'd been so adamant about Marrakech not being his last chapter, why had he continued with all of the same behavior afterward?

I never got the chance to ask him, as he regained consciousness shortly thereafter.

I saw my talkative colleague again a month later, when Reddington broke his charge's neck with a shower caddy.

The longest amount of time I ever spent at his side was after he was stung by a lionfish while free-diving in the Andaman sea. He was in such pain that he was sure he was dying there on the beach, but he hung on, dehydrated and barely able to move. I thought maybe I'd get a chance to talk to him that day, or the next, or the next after that. It could have happened at any time—he was in terrible shape. But the gypsies that found him and healed him over the next several days saw to it that I had no audience with him. I stayed for much longer than necessary, truth be told, and even lingered to watch as he left the island. The gypsy woman who had found him kissed him on the cheek, and the expression on his face… He lifted a hand to touch his skin where she'd pressed her lips, and I realized that I would never actually have any contact with this man until the day I collected him.

I'd never thought about it before.

It had never occurred to me to want to touch any of my other charges.

...:::...

TBC.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: He's not mine in the sense that he's Lizzie's, he's not mine in the sense that he's Death's, and he's not mine in the sense that I own absolutely nothing associated with The Blacklist.

...:::...

Chapter 3

...:::...

In Brussels, I met Donald Ressler for the first time. I was really only there out of curiosity: I hadn't seen my charge in awhile, so I stopped in. There was never any real danger, though I wrote up a colorful report with some minor exaggerations to justify the trip.

My funniest visit with Reddington was, hands down, the mescaline-fueled trek through the desert. At one point, naked and complaining bitterly about how hungry he was, he sat down on the side of the road and demanded the universe bring him a vehicle to take him to Tuba City. He leaned forward and traced a wavering line in the grainy earth in front of him. "I'm not walking another step, not another one, not past this line…"

I smiled, and shook my head, thinking about the boundaries I'd set for myself when I'd first been given charges. "You know the problem with drawing lines in the sand?" I said as his eyes rolled back, the dehydration finally taking its toll, and he slumped backward onto the ground. "With a breath of air they disappear."

Lucky devil, that one. Less than five minutes later a truck drove by, slowed, stopped, and reversed back to where he lay. One of the men got out, nudged my charge gently with the toe of his boot, and pulled out a cell phone to call the highway patrol to come pick up the 'naked dead man on the side of the road'.

The second time I saw the girl, she wasn't a girl anymore. She was a woman, and she was stabbing my charge in the neck with a pen.

I disliked her immediately.

And things just got more complicated from that point on. 2013 was a busy year. As was 2014, and 2015 started out just as bad.

But I'm getting ahead of myself again.

The woman's name had changed since I saw her as a girl, and I figured if she couldn't keep her own name straight then I didn't see why I should have to spend energy remembering it either.

He just kept putting himself in danger _for her_ , and it was infuriating. Getting called out at all hours, sometimes multiple times in a week, and everything related back to _her_.

Less than six months later he left a pub at the drop of a hat and flew across the world, all because Donald Ressler told him the woman had been ' _detained_ '. He didn't even press him for details. He just _went_.

But despite the torture, and the pain, and the fact that he was three heartbeats away from a heart attack and collection in the warehouse later that day, I count this as one of my very favorite visits.

…people aren't supposed to remember us. If they die—and see us—but end up being revived, they don't recall anything about it. Some people say they have an out of body experience, or feelings of floating, or tell vastly exaggerated stories about bright lights or family members. But as Reddington tended to the bleeding man in front of him, one of the things he said—and for a moment I doubted what I'd actually heard—was exactly what I'd told him in Marrakech. About books and chapters and judgment.

I sat down on the cot, right in the middle of Donald Ressler's chest, even though it was very poor form on my part. I don't really even have legs, but in that moment I felt like I couldn't stand up a second longer.

Not that being rude to people could get me in too much trouble. Maybe just a metaphorical slap on the wrist.

…but influencing my charge's ability to withstand the effects of the drugs he was injected with later that day during his torture session, and keeping his heart going, past the point of normal human endurance…? Could most definitely have gotten me fired.

Or worse.

But I did it anyway.

...:::...

TBC.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: He's not mine in the sense that he's Lizzie's, he's not mine in the sense that he's Death's, and he's not mine in the sense that I own absolutely nothing associated with The Blacklist.

Author's Note: Thank you again to everyone who has commented and reviewed! To those who have mentioned the fact that my Death reminds you of "Death of the Endless", I had never heard of that character, so I googled... OMG the character was created by Neil Gaiman. This is officially the best compliment ever, telling me someone I wrote is anything close to someone _he_ might write. *flails* _Thank you!_

...:::...

Chapter 4

...:::...

You know the woman's husband _shot_ Red once? I was fuming. She was seriously bad news for my charge. The husband missed everything important, thankfully, but he managed to clip him pretty nicely on the arm.

His case worker was there that day, as was hers, and if I breathed I would have held my breath, hoping for a collection of at least _one_ of them.

No such luck.

I was also quite glad the woman's case worker wasn't the type to show up early or stick around after it was determined there was no need for collection, though it was probably less efficient in the long run, especially the day we were both called to the middle of the Bering Sea to watch our charges get blown up. Twice, actually, in the same day, which is why I say it wasn't particularly efficient to leave and then have to come right back again. Granted, it gave me time with Red, so I wasn't complaining.

After the first explosion the woman regained consciousness relatively quickly, and her case worker promptly left the premises. Suddenly, once again, Red was standing in front of me, above his body as the woman desperately performed CPR.

"Am I dead again?" my charge asked, his voice resigned.

I nodded.

"You look upset by that," he noted. His gaze swung down to his body and the woman somewhat frantically continuing her chest compressions. "She looks upset about it, too," he added quietly. After a moment he looked back up at me, confusion clouding his face. "Why are you upset?" he inquired.

"You can never do that again," I found myself saying, words spilling out into the space around us as I advanced on him and pointed down at his body. I was immensely glad my colleague had withdrawn already, and was not present to hear this exchange. "Promise me," I added quickly, and pushed.

With that, Red seemed to get tugged backwards, pulled by an invisible cord, as if his body had hooked him with a fishing line and yanked hard from its position on the ground. The man I'd been speaking with disappeared.

He stirred, and opened his eyes, gasping.

…His first words were to ask where the woman was.

A few hours later, as I watched his unconscious form wander in elliptical circles around his body on the floor following the second explosion, I found I couldn't be mad at him. I'd asked him—inappropriately—not to endanger his life again.

But he hadn't promised.

And I shouldn't have asked.

The night that he knelt on the dirty tile floor of that massive mansion, a gun pressed to the back of his head and her name on his lips, I finally let myself admit that he wasn't mine. The instant he said her name he seemed to find peace, to come to terms with the idea of dying, and in that moment I wanted to scream for him. I wanted to be loud enough that even though he couldn't hear me, he'd feel that someone was witnessing this, that someone knew and cared that he loved her, and that he'd die for her. Because someone other than the man taking his life should know that.

For a second it didn't occur to me what was happening when the other man's case worker suddenly appeared next to me.

This was also the night that I stopped hating Lizzie.

She came back for him. She risked her safety to ensure his. As much as he wasn't mine, he was hers.

As soon as he was safely outside in the car that night, I left. I stopped showing up early or leaving long after my job was done.

Shortly after that, he got shot in the chest. Again, because of her. But this time I understood, and even though she couldn't see it, I smiled my thanks at her as she pressed her scarf to the wound and hauled him into the backseat of the car.

Oh, I still think the two of them are complete idiots when it comes to each other; don't get me wrong.

But I understand she'll do anything for him, and he'll do anything for her. He's trying his best—whatever that is—to write some truly amazing final chapters in whatever book he's going to be judged by. He's living a wild, passionate life, full of risk and tension, and I'm lucky enough to get to witness it.

And even though he's hers, every time he does something reckless, he's also still mine. In that way he'll always be mine.

Until I collect him.

...:::...

Author's Note: Hope you all enjoyed it! This is the first time I've ever written in the first person, and while it was weird, I _thoroughly_ enjoyed it. :) Also: there ended up being more challenges than I thought there would be while writing this. Like avoiding any and all gender pronouns. And avoiding having Death say something that would disrupt the timeline. I kept wanting to give Death lines in 2014 that Red had already said in 2013, for example. Lastly, this final chapter was greatly inspired by the Gutter Chat ladies, so thank you. The way we were all fangirling from afar, completely aware of the fact that Spader in a cop uniform is NOT ours, and never WILL BE ours helped Death's lamentations ring a bit truer, I think. ;)

Ooh, ooh, one more thing. I think the saddest part of all of this is that Death only knew about Red using ONE of the lines he'd heard, when in actual fact he's used ALL of them. Death was just never present the other times to hear Red repeat them. If Death had stuck around for another minute in the car after the T. Earl King incident he/she (whichever you'd prefer, or it) would have heard him repeat the "You can never do that again...promise me." Poor Death. :'(

Let me know how you liked things! And thank you for reading!


End file.
